


Sansa Lost

by PeekabooFang



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M, Sansa aged up a little, Songfic, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeekabooFang/pseuds/PeekabooFang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the tourney, Sansa grapples with her attraction to the Hound and wonders if that means she's broken faith with Joffrey. Oneshot songfic to "Natasha Lost" from the pop-opera <i>Natasha, Pierre, & The Great Comet of 1812.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sansa Lost

**Author's Note:**

> The verses from "Natasha Lost" are in italics.

_I smile, I shake_  
_And the opera continues_  
_And I'm quite submissive to the world I am in_  
_My previous life is slipping away from me_  
_My distant past is gone, is gone_

Sansa watched dumbstruck as the Hound stalked off down the corridor. She was shaking. The courteous smile she’d given him for goodnight lingered frozen on her face, disappearing by degrees as his final words truly sunk in. 

She shivered again and then entered her chambers. She felt like she moved in a dream, through water: submissive and absent. She passively let her maids brush her hair, let a recovered Jeyne chatter on and cry about Ser Hugh’s death.

Jeyne, the tourney, her father, her sister, the city and Winterfell beyond – Sansa’s one encounter with the Hound made all that she’d lived previously seem distant and shadowy.

All the lovely songs she’d ever lived for were vanished in that moment, were gone.

_And the rest of the night_  
_I can't take my eyes from him_  
_His glittering eyes_  
_And his tender smile_

The Hound. She kept seeing him, even now. She couldn’t even take her eyes from him after his confession in that moonlit field; something that would have thrilled him, she was sure, had he only noticed in his dark drunken state. He kept ordering her to look at him, after all.

Yet she couldn’t say a word more to him after telling him his brother was no true knight. His raucous laughter filled the air then, like a knife thrusting into her chest.

His glittering eyes glared straight into hers like some demon of the dark's as he rasped, “No, pretty bird. He was no true knight.” His twisted smile was mocking and cruel, but thrilling, as well....

_And as I am leaving_  
_Flushed and nervous_  
_He touches my arm_  
_And I turn around_  
_And he's looking at me_  
_With his glittering eyes_  
_And his tender smile_

Her cheeks were hot and she fiddled with her skirts nervously all the way back to her chamber door.

At last he spoke to her, touched her at the end. He gave her the ominous warning never to tell anyone about his face, but what stayed with her now was the heat of his hand through her sleeve. 

He looked at her, truly looked. Not like other people looked. There was an intensity there in his glittering eyes she’d never seen in any man or animal. Something hunted, something daring. 

Something that made her stare after him as he walked away. Something that made her feel cold and empty now that he was gone.

_Oh God, I am lost!_  
_How could I let him?_  
_Everything is dark, obscure, and terrible_  
_I don't understand this_  
_Oh God, I am lost!_

Sansa tossed and turned in her bed. She rubbed her arms, in what she realized appalled was a desperate attempt to replicate the warmth of his hands on her.

She was lost. She’d been lost since sweet Lady’s death – but there had been comfort in knowing her wolf was safe with the Gods now, that Father had been as gentle and swift as he could be.

There was nothing to comfort her now. Her heart had been light and full of excitement at the tourney, in the warm glow of Joffrey’s renewed affection for her. Now it was replaced with a dark obscurity terrible to contemplate.

How could she let the Hound of all gruesome people do this to her? He was so hopelessly ugly. His scars gleamed like meaty leather in the moonlight, and even worse was the ravenous rage written in every line of that disfigured face.

So why then did the very thought of him bring a rush of feeling that she knew, just knew wasn’t terror? At least, not the terror of repugnance? But a terror of want, of yearning? She felt such a pull to see him again, to hear that deep rasping voice and feel those hot strong hands burn her, burn her…

She didn’t understand this. She hated it. Confused tears stung her eyes. She was lost, lost.

_Back in the theater, full of lights_  
_Where tenors jumped about in tinsel jackets_  
_Young girls and old men cried “bravo!” in rapture_  
_There it all seemed simple_  
_But now, alone_  
_I am tortured_

Burying herself further in her blankets, Sansa thought back on the tourney. She remembered the gallant men in their armor, their shields and lances catching the light. The horse hooves pounding the ground boomed like thunder. The knights’ swift jabs and dodges were like some terrible heated dance. 

The thud of a man falling to the ground, and the dust rising like mist brought young and old alike to their feet as they cheered. Everyone was as enraptured as she was.

Most intoxicating of all was the evening feast. Her heart glowed and bloomed with such glad surprise as her dear, true prince proved himself worthy of her devotion. How loving he was, how forgiving. Delicacies never tasted sweeter than when eaten off the fork he playfully served her with. Even her septa’s embarrassing drunkenness, the king’s mortifying outburst, and yes, even the unfortunate death of Ser Hugh could not intrude on her bliss in Joffrey’s bright company.

No, everything was so simple and right then. Nothing could disturb her happiness.

Except now, alone, when she thought of the Hound.

Sandor Clegane was a life force more exciting than any she'd met before: some beast from the Seven Hells come to torment her.

To _tempt_ her?

_My conscience gnaws away at my heart  
Am I spoiled for Andrey's love or not?_

Sansa was so used to always feeling what she should. Since infancy she'd constantly behaved within the correct parameters of a sweetly reared highborn lady. The presence of these confused, exciting, wonderful, and terrible emotions brought about by the Hound -- the vile, crude Hound -- ate away at her heart.

She’d shivered not in disgust and loathing at the rasp of steel in his voice. She'd shivered with frank need. She’d felt a warm pit in her belly at his touch, at his very glance.

Did that mean she was spoiled in some way for Joffrey? What would her prince think if he knew his lady held such inappropriate longing for his "dog" as he called him? Was she now unworthy of her darling’s love?

_Oh I can soothe myself with irony --_  
_Nothing, it was nothing_  
_I didn't lead him on at all_  
_No one will ever know_  
_I'll never see him again_  
_Nothing has happened_  
_And Andrey can love me still_

She turned over on the mattress, suddenly defiant as she fluffed her pillows violently. She was being foolish and ridiculous.

Nothing had actually _happened_. At least, not on her part. Sandor – the _Hound_ \- had been the one to touch her, to force her to look at him. _He’d_ been the one to speak of horrible violence at the hands of the Mountain, when all she wanted was to go to her room. She’d been only as courteous as she should have been, no more, no less.

(She ignored the traitorous thought: you touched his shoulder, you comforted him.)

Nothing truly happened. Besides, she was unlikely to ever be alone with him again. He was Prince Joffrey’s shield after all, not a true knight she would have to hold court for some day. 

No, she was free of any wrong and Joffrey could love her still. This she knew.

_Oh God, why isn't he here?_

…But why didn’t he escort her back himself? He was so kind and attentive when the banquet was full of revelers, but the minute his father left and the party broke up…that light left his handsome green eyes and he…he left her.

Left her with _him._

_And yet it was like there was nothing between us_  
_No veil, no modesty_  
_Just his face and strong hands_  
_His glittering eyes_  
_And his tender smile_

Always, always tonight she circled back to the Hound. Sandor Clegane. All her life Sansa felt there was a slight separation between her and other people – as there should be, since she was a highborn lady, who must always wear courtesy as her armor. How else to keep impropriety at bay?

Yet it was different with the Hound. For the first time in her life, she’d felt no need of lady’s armor. There was nothing between her and this gigantic man, who knelt vulnerable and dangerous as he growled lowly about his horrific past. 

She felt the same vulnerability and danger course through her veins as she watched his massive chest move up and down in the darkness.

The air had grown thick between them, but there was no veil or pretension of maidenly modesty. She was bold and daring in her strong compassion for him. Nothing kept her from placing her hand on that strong shoulder.

And he’d laughed in her face. She lost her breath as he did, overcome by the power and sorrow within his rough voice. His glittering eyes scorched her; his twisted smile mocked her.

_That bold handsome man who pressed my arm…._

Yes, Sansa Stark felt well and truly lost as she fell into a restless sleep full of snarling hounds and little birds hovering over them, frightened but drawn toward the desperate baying.

Her last conscious image was of that bold, monstrous man who made her look into his face.

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, I feel like Sansa has a lot in common with Natasha Rostova. Disclaimer that of course I ship Natasha/Andrey over Natasha/Anatole, since in the context of the musical and the book, Andrey's actually a lot more like Sandor while Anatole --though not a monster -- has more surface traits in common with Joffrey.
> 
> But I feel like Sansa's conflicting feelings here closely match Natasha's attraction to Anatole. So lost and willful, both gals.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrpXC1gNHpU


End file.
